


Lethal Beauty

by CallaMae



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallaMae/pseuds/CallaMae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on an assignment Harry is brought short at finding a shamelessly bare woman waiting for him, a woman he quickly realizes is much less innocent than she appears. Unable to resist playing her game he finds her again, and again, further winding himself in her web.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Six Years Ago_

It was supposed to be a simple assignment, the majority of the time and effort spent on surveillancing the target and blocking out the most opportune time to break into his hotel room. Harry's participation was due to the severity of what lay in the most luxurious suite in Le Royal Monceau: a particular set of military weapons codes that would, rather than cause destruction, result in war with Russia. The primary concern of theirs was to ensure the codes were retrieved before being sold, as Aldan Sherwood was currently attempting in the restaurant below.

The mission was simple; enter the room, find the file, and leave without being noticed. Mr. Sherwood, a rather unsightly man whose entire character was defined by his greed, was inexperienced in the matter: the three men he'd hired were now unconscious in the hall and he'd brought the codes to Paris with him and left them in his room under the impression they'd be safe. It should've taken Harry no more than ten minutes from the moment he entered the building to when he departed.

However, upon entering the room he was brought short at the sight of a shamelessly nude woman lounging on the couch facing him. It was not her display of skin that caused him to falter it was her lack of concern at being found, by a stranger no less, in her current state. She sat with her elbows resting on the back of the couch exposing her breasts, her spine straightened with impeccable posture and her legs crossed, tan skin nearly glowing in the dim light against the stark white couch, dark hair pulled back revealing her lovely face, her narrow eyes trailing his body as he refused his own to do. There was no surprise at his foreign face, no quick hurry to cover herself, not even a cry for help.

Her curious gaze returned to his and she stated calmly, "you are not my lover."

From the pronunciation of her r's alone Harry knew she was French, her accent was thick her voice a low timbre of words dripping slowly from her mouth - he may as well have been smoking a cigar for the ambience was all but identical. "No madam, my deepest apologies," Harry told her, not allowing his gaze to falter. "My presence is due to the utmost importance, perhaps we can talk once you've made yourself more presentable." The moment he heard Merlin's refusal in his ear Harry removed the glasses from his face and pocketed them, not wishing to expose her without her discretion. And he was left trying not to stare wishing she'd cover herself, there was something about her nudity that left him unable to decipher any part of her.

"Am I distracting you from breaking into my room?" she asked, a small grin accompanying the playful look in her dark eyes.

The sense returned to him at the word 'my' when he was reminded it was not her room but rather a man who would be facing serious consequences, and of course the fact that she should not be there. "I do believe this is Mr. Sherwood's room, Ms…I didn't catch your name."

A rather warm look entered her serious eyes as she stood. "I know, and I did not give it," she replied stopping in front of him.

"And are you aware Mr. Sherwood is married?" he asked finally remembering to be suspicious.

"For thirteen years, unhappy," she answered letting her eyes roam again. The exquisite suit, the umbrella, the glasses – she knew exactly who he was. She returned her eyes to his face, thinking he was quite handsome.

He was no longer fooled by her heated stare, no longer a fool at the whim of a lovely woman; there was a reason he looked at her and could not tell a solitary thing about her, and somehow that was more suspicious than her being there. "Then you of course know, as well, that he is currently entertaining a guest in the dining room downstairs?" he asked getting to the point that should've tipped him off the moment he opened the door to find her.

But she smiled, the simple lifting of the right side of her mouth in a roguish manner, pricking his confidence with a pin and letting it slowly deflate. "You assume I am his mistress." She watched the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed, heard his soft 'I see' at whatever realization he'd come to. "Do you give your apologies now?" she asked seeing him almost smile at the unexpected touch of humor. "Why don't you tell me why you are here, maybe I can help?"

You can help by clothing yourself, is what he thought stepping around her to look further in the room for what he'd come for – not fully taking his eye off her, nor did she seem to want him to as she stayed always in his peripheral. "I have come for a briefcase, it would have some security measure be it code or key, would you happen to know where he stores it for safe keeping?" He allowed himself to take in her posture, without taking in the rest of her, to find no hand on her hip or slouch of her spine – she was refined, elegant. And he did not believe she was a mistress, not for a moment.

"How do I know you are no thief?" she posed with such simple reasoning he was forced to realize he very much appeared as one to an unknowing eye.

Yet he wasn't fully convinced she was unknowing, mostly due to the  _knowing_  in her eye – she still stared with open curiosity and not the slightest bit of alarm, a sense of anticipation as though she were aware of what was happening. "I can only assure you I am not, and it is in fact Mr. Sherwood who did the thieving."

She stood quietly appraising him, searching for any sign of a ploy without finding one. "How important are the documents to you?" she asked watching any doubt wilt as his face turned to stone. "Soon the person in your ear will tell you there are men coming to take the codes you want. With small time to waste I ask again, how important are the documents to you?"

"Gravely," he answered seeing then he'd been right in his inability to read her, she was quite good at playing games.

With a small nod she opened the doors to the bedroom revealing the slick black briefcase she'd set on the bed before she was interrupted by his arrival. "Are you the good guy?"

He looked at her, truly looked at this strange woman who used her naked beauty as a weapon and honestly could not make sense of her. "Of sorts," he answered. He'd barely finished speaking when Merlin's deep Scottish brogue sounded in his ear, as she'd known, to tell him a team of Russians were on their way up and they had less than thirty seconds to prepare. Taking her thin arm in hand he pulled her into the bedroom and held her to the wall. "We will continue this discussion when I am finished," he told her seriously, planning to take her with him willing or not so they might know who she was and why she'd come for the codes.

A grin sly enough to shame a fox curled on her full mouth as she pressed against him, her warm chest flush against his her nose nearly brushing his chin. "Will the discussion include removing your clothes?" she asked catching the twitch of his brow at her heavily suggestive words. And for no purpose other than to 'ensure' he wouldn't mistake her intention, which was  _of course_  not to rile him up to leave an impression, she further explained; "I would have you take me against this wall until I screamed whatever name you say was yours, mon bel homme."

And with a single sentence she'd stolen his sense once more, leaving him clutching for reasons why that shouldn't be as enticing as it seemed. It was Merlin who righted Harry's reason, warning him they had ten seconds, and he stepped away from the intoxicating woman smoothing his suit as he returned to himself. "Quite right," he said returning the glasses to his face as he made his way to the door to greet their guests.

To the sound of wood splintering as the door was kicked down and yells of fury and pain as they met the man waiting inside, she began to redress. After she'd pulled on her dress and stepped into her heels, unlocking the briefcase with the keys she'd plucked from Mr. Sherwood's pocket as she passed him in the hall, she allowed herself to watch the handsome man who had found her. He was eloquent in both speaking and manners, she didn't think he'd let his gaze stray from her face once, he was even a gentleman as he fought. She watched with enraptured awe the ease in which he took out the Russians, who'd never had a chance, the lovely flourish of his body as he moved; she could've gone on all night and she regretted deeply that she couldn't.

Disposing of the last man, Harry took the time to straighten his suit before turning to the woman who stood enticingly in the bedroom. Only the sight he was met with was the briefcase left open on the bed and an open window to his left. Against reason he checked the case hoping he hadn't let himself be played for a complete fool, and at the sight of the bare interior he made for the window hoping to find her on the ledge with the chance of coaxing her inside. But again he was left with nothing but a clue as to what she had done, half her metal bracelet encircled a decorative piece and a string of wire that'd been wound inside the bracelet ran from the window to the ground where the other half of the cuff hovered over the sidewalk gleaming in the streetlights.

"Lost her in a crowd; lass knew someone was watching."

Harry breathed a heavy sigh as he stood staring down at the streets of Paris for a woman he never learned the name of, and only had a guess as to her race because while she was clearly French her face appeared vaguely Asian. "She knows of us then," Harry said wondering how that were possible when she hadn't been faintly familiar to him.

"We don't know of her, I can tell you that," Merlin said running her face through the system a second time only to receive the same matchless results, which meant she'd kept her head down the last ten or so years – it being unlikely the computer would recognize a younger face. "How long are you staying in Paris?" he asked knowing Harry wouldn't leave without finding her again.

Be it the threat she could potentially create or his own personal desire to partake once more in her game and reign victorious, or a clouded mixture of the two, he replied; "as long as it takes."


	2. Chapter 2

She was smart, or at least she was aware the moment her license was run through any database they would have her location. Merlin had set their system to continuously search for her face over the next week, a task made difficult by her lack of movement – neither traffic cameras nor the airport, and Harry was certain from her display of poise she worked at a high-end company that required a name badge for access, which would leave her working from home to avoid being caught. Clever indeed.

She might've been forgotten if not for the codes she had in her possession, already Harry had convinced himself she was not half as compelling as she'd seemed. It mattered not if he believed it: if she were any other woman they would have found her by then and the fact that she knew how not to be was quite intriguing – and he was forced to admit the only reason he'd stumbled upon her at all was because she allowed it.

It seemed only befitting that his coming across her again was due to nothing more than her whim, and a blind reach from him. The Gala at the Palais Garnier, a woman as sophisticated and tasteful as herself would certainly attend. Or so he told himself, at the end of a week it was appearing less and less likely he would find her before the military codes were sold and a war break out. It truly was a desperate attempt for she had left him on his knees blindly reaching for her, and Harry was not a man accustomed to finding himself on his knees.

She stood alone on a balcony in the Opera House staring silently at the crowd below as she listened to the romantic words of the speaker explaining the importance of the arts. She was the picture of elegance, no unrefined display of skin whether the cheap use of cleavage or the tasteless show of one's back, the dress went from her collar to the floor tight enough to show she was a woman. As if in knowing she turned her head and he felt her eyes, made sharper by the coal that lined them, pierce his face for several heavy moments before she looked back to the display below them. And just like that, with nothing more than a single glance, Harry was spellbound.

"Do you like opera?" she asked when he stood at the place beside her, her accent drawing the word opera out an extra syllable curling an unplanned smile on his mouth.

Taking the glass of champagne she offered he noticed their floor was untouched, not meant to entertain the guests where there were roses adorning every handrail below and tables set for them to dine. She'd known he would come. "I'm quite fond of it on the occasion I have time to be," he told her with a surprising honesty, one he wasn't sure if he meant to give. "And you, my dear, do you enjoy the opera?"

Raising her glass to her mouth she left behind the mark of her lipstick, a brilliant red, as though it were branded. "I prefer ballet," she answered dropping the pretense of listening to the speaker as she faced fully the man she'd known would come for her. "You have found me," she stated simply, wondering more what he planned to do now and how long it would take.

"You did not make it easy."

Taking the glass he refused to drink she exchanged it for the one she'd just sipped. "If you could have it easily is it really worth having?" she asked raising his glass to her painted lips proving she had not poisoned it.

He allowed himself to drink with her, his mouth precariously close to the stain she'd left, truly believing her to mean him no harm though he'd never think she meant to help. "Why did you come, you must've known I would?"

There was no way to know if her eyes gleamed or if it were only the twinkling of the lanterns as she smiled, her lovely face cast in shadow. "If I answer your questions will you answer mine?" she asked earning herself the tightening of his jaw as he thought.

They may very well end as liars, yet he had every confidence they would both come out with something to say for the other; and quite frankly he enjoyed her manner of speech, it was slow, deliberate. "That is an arrangement I can agree upon."

"I knew you thought I'd be here," she told him watching his brows raise in utter disbelief at her having come solely to see him again. "The company I work for makes a great donation every year, I convinced my coworker to let me take her ticket."

"Why," he asked the moment she stopped speaking, an answer had for why her name was not found on the roster but not for her presence.

Again she smiled, and without a clear view of her eyes he didn't know if she were playful or arrogant. "It's my turn." She watched him inhale sharply though he was quick to soften his face as he nodded for her to go ahead. "Is there a camera in your glasses?"

He'd been prepared to answer a simpler, less thought-out, question such as who he was. But not that. "I don't pretend to know how you came to guess that," he said, as close to the question 'how did you know,' as he could get without blatantly admitting that yes there was.

But she heard his silent yes anyway. "You took them off at the sight of my body then put them back on to fight. I'd thought maybe you didn't want to see me naked but you're not wearing them now and you have no reason to not want to see me." She surprised him at her verbalization of her own looks, turning his head with interest, and she further went on to say; "I had hoped you'd like blue."

Harry allowed himself to look down at her, her slender waist and wide hips, the swell of her chest. Fishing for compliments, he absolutely despised it. "My hands are tied, you're most beautiful," he said watching the slow pull of her mouth in a smile, his interest slowly waning.

"I am here because I knew you thought I'd be."

His declining interest paused and turned back before accelerating. She was teasing him, showing how effortlessly she could coax the answer she wanted out of him – he'd played right into her hand. Again, considering she'd stolen the codes from under his nose. "Since you gave the answer before I asked the question I dare say it is my turn." He waited a moment for her refusal, giving her a chance though he knew she wouldn't. "How came you by the knowledge of us?" he asked, giving as much as he could without giving too much.

He was asking the wrong questions, they were quickly running out of time. "The man who wanted the launch codes, he said to be wary of posh men in extraordinary suits."

"What is his name?"

"You can ask when it's your turn," she said seeing his patience grow thin before he masked it. "What is your name?"

There'd been something so intimate in the softness of her voice that had his fervor hesitating as he stared at her half-lit face – the dark lines of her makeup showing she was more than vaguely Asian, and even more beautiful. "Galahad," he answered with a truth he should not have trusted her to give.

Wondering furrowed her brows as she quietly searched his face, a gentleness to his eyes that had her realizing as strange and unlikely a name it was some part of it was true. "Does this mean I'm Morgan Le Fey."

"No dear," he said with a shake of his head, "I am known to some by the name of Galahad."

"Is that the name you'd want me to call you?" she asked seeing in his risen brows he knew she alluded to sexual relations and hearing in his silence that answer was no, which meant he still had an answer to give.

However it was not one he'd give so easily. "Perhaps if I knew your name," he said turning her game onto her, leaving her to smile at his wit.

They were at a standstill, neither would give the other the two words that defined their existence – at least until one of them caved first. And while she didn't know much about this man she knew enough that it wouldn't be him. "A dance," she proposed, taking him off guard so skillfully, again, it may as well have been her job.

"That is the price you put on your name?" he asked drawn to the romanticism of her thoughts. It was simply no longer the way of the world; an actual sum, immunity, something the other person wanted in exchange. The world they lived in was far more prone to self desire than to sentiment.

"A dance avec un beau monsieur," she said further signifying that's what she meant, and all she wanted.

Already his arms were prepared to hold her, his body to lead her and feel her warmth against him. "This is the second time you have referred to me as handsome."

"No," she said, "the first time I called you beautiful." The two shared a smile, their mouths curling at nearly the same moment, the same moment at which their eyes warmed. Their thoughts the same, the space around them tightening pulling them closer; the game might very well have ended that night if they'd gone uninterrupted.

Harry saw her gaze shift behind him, saw first the recognition in her eyes and then her mouth slip into a straight, unamused, line. Stepping directly in front of her he turned with a hand reaching beneath his jacket to find a graying man emerging from the shadows; his beard white though his hair retained some of his color, his jaw wide cut, his mouth stern, his eyes displeased as he looked only to the lady at Harry's back. The trailing of his stare had Harry half turning to see her briskly hurrying away, slipping through a door along the wall.

That action alone told Harry two things, this was the man after the codes and she'd come with the intention to sell them – she'd played Harry a fool, yet again. With more rash anger than thought he turned to the Russian man and cracked his head on the wall before running after the retreating woman. Throwing the hidden door open he turned to his left at the sound of a heel on wooden stairs and hastily ran down them in pursuit, though turning the corner he saw a lone shoe tumbled on its side. A moment's hesitation, Harry finally giving her the credit he was quickly seeing she deserved, and he was lunging back up the stairs. Reentering the hall he noticed first the man he'd left had returned to the shadows – he didn't have the set of numbers that would throw them into war, she did, and so in Harry's heavily clouded mind he believed her to be the more important of the two.

So he turned in the direction she would've gone looking down the hall to see her other shoe laid deliberately on the rail of the balcony for him to find. The sight of which had him cautiously approaching it, not trusting her enough to assume it would do no harm, yet still he almost expected to see a note left for him slipped inside. What he did find was by stepping to the railing he could see the main floor where the guests were congregated, and like a beacon his eyes were drawn to the place directly beneath him where she stood staring up at him – too far below to understand what look was etched on her greatly unhappy face. With so many people as witnesses, and him having been so sure of his ability to charm her, there was little more Harry could do than to watch her escape once more from his grasp.


	3. Chapter 3

She didn't leave Harry waiting. At twelve o'clock the next day he sat in his hotel room staring at the picture of a museum pass, the photo her face but the name he did not believe was hers – Fleur Fontena. He spoke the name aloud several times before stumbling on her surname and speaking it as though there were a 'y' at the end. And then he realized, Fontenay-le-Fleury; quite possibly where she'd grown up, if her romanticism gave way to sentiment.

And then he wondered where she was, a foolish woman would give her location in the hopes he would find her without giving thought to who else might want her found. Her pass had been scanned at the Museum of Asian Arts but she was no fool, and she'd expect no less from him. And so while several Russian men made way to the Musée National des Arts Asiatiques Harry instead went to the Pagoda, another museum of Asian arts only two kilometers northeast.

There were very few people in the six story hotel at noon, a meeting would be quiet, intimate. He found her stowed away in a small room overlooking the street below, though she stood admiring the walls for the artwork that they were. Her white blouse stood out against the red of the wall, a white made all the more brilliant against her warm skin, her dark high-waisted trousers complimenting the intricate painting. He moved to her side admitting, with spare reluctance, that she complimented his grey suit – be it her lush clothing or noble posture, or even that she stood only an inch shorter than him in heels. He was acutely aware that they were handsome together, a seed she'd planted in his mind each time she flirted.

Without turning, having heard him close and bar the door when he found her, she held up a hand and said, "imagine yourself then, in a time this city was magic, sipping tea in this very room." She turned then to see such a gentle thoughtfulness in his eyes she could almost imagine them as old friends. "My grandmother used to say that every time we came. She wanted very much for me to be a traditional Chinese daughter."

"And were you?" he asked enjoying the romantic lull that surrounded every part of her; from her words, to her voice, her face. She was bewitching, this elusive woman.

With a roguish smile she turned back to the pattern, her fingers longing to trail each ornate line though the memory of her grandmother slapping her hand kept her from it. "I am a stubborn Frenchwoman, my father's daughter."

"An intelligent one as well, if I may say so." He waited until she gave him her full attention before he continued. "You didn't want your Russian friend to join us?"

Her face, normally warm and playful, took on a hard and tired edge. "You assume we're friends," she said wondering how he had yet to see it, if he was so quick to presume.

"Aren't you?" he posed unfond of her impatient tone, as well as the clarity in which he was seeing the effects of extreme stress; the bags under her eyes from lack of sleep, the hastily thrown back hair. "You invited him to the gala."

Now she understood, a man betrayed. "You weren't supposed to come after me." She took the few seconds his confusion allowed to remove his glasses and slid them into his breast pocket, allowing her hand to linger as her touch seemed to soften him.

It was then he saw what she had done; she lured the man to the gala so he would be caught when Harry came for her. Only he'd allowed it to become personal, letting the man he should've been looking for slip away. And then he was left, her standing distractingly close and her hand a weighted thing on his chest, wondering why she'd want the man paying her to be caught. "You were unaware the severity of what you were stealing," he said remembering her referring to it as a document.

"He only told me it was important, I don't like not knowing what I'm taking."

"Have you heard the saying about the curious cat?"

She chanced a step closer, knowing from their first meeting that he could hurt her if he so wished and finding that risk so tempting a dare. "Is that not why you're here?"

As true as that might've been it was only a half truth, if not for what was in her possession he wouldn't have made half the effort finding her. She was distracting him, and he was letting her. And so he smiled, and at seeing it wasn't quite honest she returned her hand to her side leaving him with the imprint of her palm's warmth over his breast. "Who is the man you work for?"

Not knowing what had changed in him she took a step away, admiring the dark wooden furniture. "You assume I work for him."

"Am I to believe you don't?" he asked feeling his patience begin to wane at the lack of a name for a second time.

Her eyes were sharp when she turned to him, unappreciative of his tone but more so his lack of imagination. "If I worked for him do you  _really_  think a handsome man in a suit would sway me?" She waited for her words to penetrate his suspicion, saw his hesitation crease his brow, and next asked: "Have I not answered all your questions?"

She didn't know his name, that was the answer, and she'd given it twice. Now he was starting to see, or at least better guess. She didn't work for any one man, the very way she carried herself expressed her independence, she was a freelancer who operated on curiosity. "If not for money then for what?" he asked, knowing that answer would tell him all he needed to understand this strange woman.

A slow smile split her face at him finally asking the right questions - at him actually thinking because she'd been starting to grow tired of his thoughtless musings. She leaned toward him and lowered her voice as though she were about to give him her greatest secret: "I go mad with boredom."

And there it was, the reason for her actions: why she'd waited in the hotel room for him, her want to meet with him twice now, her impatience at the obvious question, and more than that it answered the reason she'd yet to sell the codes. She wasn't interested in money, and that made her both fascinating and dangerous. "You were not swayed," he said finally, seeing her grin so much like a cat he half expected a canary to fall out of her mouth. Regardless, he knew she'd give him the codes - he did not, however, know how long she'd play with him first.

"I find you very curious, Mr. Galahad," she admitted.

If the sound of that name wrapped in her thick voice had his heart stuttering he couldn't imagine what it'd do to hear her speak his true name. Not to be outdone, he raised her hand to his mouth, "and I you, Ms. Fontenay-le-Fleury," and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Unless of course there is another name you wish me to call you," he said using her own words and their suggestive meaning against her, and once more turned the game on her.

Only her response wasn't the small curling of her mouth he took to signify her pleasure at his wit, as was his intention because that look on her face had him swelling with pride at earning her favor. The tiredness returned to her eyes, her mouth barely twitching, and he was filled with nothing but concern. "Soon I don't think it will matter what you call me."

Still holding her hand he erased the distance between them, stood feeling her breath on his face. "Is he threatening you?"

She smiled then, a quaint shivering curl of a smile, as she stared at his face – the picture of worry, and that worry was concentrated on her. "Oh mon chéri," her voice but a sigh.

It'd been leading to this from the beginning, her mouth on his her arms strung around his shoulders his hands on her back holding her against him. And yet it still took him by momentary surprise, whether at the sudden feel of her soft lips or that he hadn't realized how much he'd wanted it, but the moment passed and his thoughts were solely on the taste of her. Distracted by her mouth he paid little thought to the sudden disappearance of her hand, didn't once think that as she lowered her arm to let her purse fall from her shoulder that she reached for something hidden away – he didn't realize the fool she'd made him until he felt a sharp pain buried deep in his arm.

As if in disbelieving he removed his tongue from her mouth to see a syringe was, in fact, clenched in her grasp. Nothing more than a startled gasp escaped her as his hand wound round her throat, his once enraptured mouth now seething. "What the fuck was that?"

The words had barely been spoken when the world sudden turned on its side and his grip loosened as his body began to wilt. With the room spinning and his mind suddenly slowed, he could barely make sense of her arms around him as she lowered him to the ground. Or of her swirling face above his staring sweetly down at him, her voice soft and far away speaking French words his fading mind didn't have the chance to understand. The last thing he remembered as his eyes closed was the feel of her mouth once more on him, a gentle touch he might've dreamed if not for the smell of her perfume.

…

He woke with a start still feeling her lips pressed against his, the floral scent of her lingering in his nose. And he nearly knocked out the woman kneeling over him before he realized she was a _he_ , and he worked there. "My apologies," Harry said brushing aside the unwanted hands as he sat up, pausing at feeling something tucked in the back of his trousers. "Might I get a glass of water?"

The moment the man left Harry was reaching for his back and pulling out the folder she'd left for him, a note stuck to the front that read "you owe me a dance," in delicate looping letters – her dark red lipstick framed on the edge.

"Good to know she keeps her word."

At the sound of Merlin's voice Harry realized at some point she'd returned his glasses to his face, possibly giving his vulnerable unconsciousness some form of security. He didn't think much on it as he flipped through the pages of the weapon designs, the location they targeted, and the codes to launch them. "Did you find anything on her?" he asked thinking with a false identity she clearly used, her true name was certainly somewhere to be found.

"Everything."

Harry stilled as he climbed to his feet at such a definitive answer, at the fact that they had answer. "And?"

Merlin was quiet several moments, seeing Harry making a hasty exit probably in the hope to catch up to her. "That depends, she asked that I refrain from giving you her name for twenty-four hours. Do you want to honor that?"

"Am I to take it you spoke to her?" he asked now realizing she'd put his glasses on so that Merlin would see her.

"Her car's the Bugatti in the lot, her keys are in your pocket. And yes, she took your earpiece; cheeky little thing."

Stepping out of the old hotel and into the brisk noon air, Harry pulled the keys from his pocket and wondered what game she was playing. "What was she after?"

Merlin looked to the screen still monitoring the security camera across from her apartment building, the same burly men still standing outside. "She wanted to know if her apartment was being watched."

"Is it?"

"Sacked, I'm guessing. D'you want her name?"

It wasn't until Harry slid into her lavish car, one he whole-heartedly believed she'd chosen for its speed, and saw his reflection in the mirror that he realized why every person he'd passed had worn either a knowing smirk or a disapproving look. The skin around his mouth was smudged red, his own face branded by her painted lips. "I don't suppose she felt so inclined to inform you of her next move?" he asked cleaning his face with a tissue he'd taken from the box on the passenger side floor.

He was gonna give her the day she'd asked for, Merlin didn't know whether to chide Harry or shake his head unsurprised. "She guessed my name was Merlin," he instead said as consolation for her now being in the wind.

She'd gone through the car after leaving him the keys, had probably never locked it, he didn't find much more than a pack of gum and the registration. "As the man in my ear giving me guidance," he said not the least bit surprised she'd guessed it, rather he was warmed by it. "There's no finding her then."

"Not 'less she wants to be," Merlin answered hearing his sigh of discontent. "And if you don't want to have to report her to Arthur you better hope she doesn't."

Nothing about that was what Harry wanted to hear, especially not upon knowing there were men after her; and when Arthur learned of her existence then they would be after as well. He was left driving in silence as he wondered why he cared anything for this woman. This wasn't seduction, something he was trained and confident in his ability of – he'd captured her interest, had her changing her mind for desire of him, putting herself in possible danger to see him again, but only so long as her interest in him was maintained. That was seduction.  
But she didn't have him changing his mind, he knew he'd have to apprehend her, that the questioning of her knowledge would be both extensive and severe, that the government would want her imprisoned. It wasn't simply knowing that, he still planned to execute every part save the imprisonment. Already he pondered how to lessen her suffering, how to go about proving she was not so much a threat as an asset to the Kingsman one he would assure Arthur he could control. This was romance. He wasn't thinking of how he might move the world for her but rather how he might rearrange it. And those thoughts were far more dangerous in the way they consumed.

It was late by the time he returned to his flat in London, having eventually driven in circles to delay the thoughts of her that would return once he was still. Already he could feel her presence seep into his mind as he shut and locked the door behind him, his glasses left on the table, and him tiredly climbing the stairs planning to wake early to discuss with Merlin how to find her.

A plan unneeded. He was brought to a halt when he turned on the bedroom light to find her lying curled on her side in his bed. Not only that but her hair was half dry sprawled over the pillow behind her and her body covered with one of his shirts; as though she were his lover, and he were returning home to her. With clouded thoughts, as even in sleep she was able to do, he sat at the place her legs bent and stared down at her sleeping face. It was softer without makeup, as he'd yet to see her, her cheeks sharper, her loose hair long and curled. Against all common sense, and every other part of him that said it was a bad idea, he laid himself beside her in the small space at the edge of the bed; his cheek against hers, the smell of his soap on her skin thick in his nose, he fell into a peaceful sleep he hadn't known the likes of in many years.

 


	4. Chapter 4

She woke to quiet and warmth. The sheets had been pulled over her shoulders, a way she rarely slept, hair that should've been stuck to her cheek had been brushed aside, and the early morning sun glowed orange through curtains that were closed the night before. All this had her smiling as she reached for the note folded on the bedside table, wishing to have seen his handsome face when he found her – the surprise, the desire.

The note was as elegant as the man, the paper thick and textured, the lines from a fountain pen, the handwriting neat, antique. His words were common though giving a good morning, making mention of the robe he'd laid at the edge of the bed for her, of the toothbrush he'd set on the bathroom counter for her, that he was waiting downstairs when she found her way to him. She half expected to find the word dear written, so personal were his words.

At the sound of her soft footsteps above him Harry stood from where he'd been sitting and made for the kitchen to start the coffee. It wasn't long before he heard the sound of her feet on the stairs, the sound of which seemed to encompass the word  _beckon_ , and he met her in the dining room. She was precisely how he imagined, his white shirt removed in favor of the soft robe, her shoeless feet proving that without heels she was still quite tall, fully dry hair curled around a clean face at least five years younger than he'd thought – she could be no more than thirty if not exactly. And if not for the spell she'd cast so strongly on him from the beginning he might've found the sense to turn away.

Instead, with no real surprise, he motioned to the table and said, "please." Even her choice of seat, to the left of the pulled out chair he'd previously occupied, was no surprise. She let him move at her back without turning to ensure he meant no harm, he didn't know what to make of it – if she was foolish in her easy trust in him, had yet to experience how not to trust, or was simply being courtesy in his home to not assume. Though he saw the drawing back of her shoulders when he came around to set a cup of coffee in front of her, and he knew then she was forcing herself not to turn so as to be polite. "I am afraid I do not have croissants for you," he said watching the curl of her mouth at the way he pronounced the word, a smile that cut through him sharper than any knife.

"I much prefer baguette with la vache qui rit," she said reaching for the little pot that held the cream in his sweet little coffee set. His home might not have been the size she'd imagined but everything in it was, and she found he was indeed very sophisticated. "But I eat eggs if I must." Her face as she looked up to where he stood was an exaggerated pout, her mouth thankfully not pursed but her eyes were widened and they blinked quickly – he couldn't help but smile at her playfulness. "But not your beans," she said turning back to her coffee and raising the cup to her mouth.

That was certainly no surprise, and he stood feeling such a strange longing to rest his hand on her shoulder, to stroke her cheek. Thoughts he was not accustomed to letting get away from him, and he was so put off he stepped back. "How do you like your eggs?"

Without looking at him she turned her head toward him and answered, "creamy and with toast, if it's not too much."

"Not at all."

She looked at him then, watched his retreating form to the kitchen and enjoyed the sight of him out of a suit – a sweater and slacks, his hair though still coiffed and his face once more adorning glasses. He looked gentle, approachable, she dare thought even lovely with his long legs and slender waist. It made little sense to her, from the words he spoke to the heavy way his eyes took in each feature of her face his intention was her desire, and still he insisted upon behaving a gentleman. Making her breakfast, not taking advantage of the woman deliberately laid in his bed, and more so when came morning and she sat clearly willing at his dining room table in nothing but his silk robe – his actions made no sense to her. And she sat sipping her coffee wondering if perhaps that were his intention, because she waited so very impatiently wrought with anticipation for what would happen next.

"Thank you," she said in response to the plate he set in front of her before he returned to his chair at the head of the table. They were quiet several moments, her elbows on the table as she held her cup staring thoughtfully out the window, and Harry with a napkin draped over his lap staring obviously and without care at her waiting for her to eat. "There is a dog in your bathroom," she said when he refused to speak.

He sat startled by her words, having neither expected it nor having to explain the reason to her. It was strange, he knew that, and he knew it all the more as he sat watching for any sort of response from her. Yet she sat entirely unbothered still holding her coffee, the sleeves of the robe fallen revealing her bare arm. And he thought anything but the want to run his hand along her soft skin, thoughts that led him to why she'd discovered Mr. Pickles in the first place. "It is impolite to go through someone's home, most especially when they are not present to give you a proper tour," he told her, knowing had their roles been reversed he'd have pried.

"How much do you expect?" she asked finally turning to look at him, her mouth curled in a manner he now knew to mean playful. "I did break in."

He couldn't help but agree; "that you did," he mused to himself wondering what she'd found on him at the museum that lead to his flat.

Resting her chin in her hand she sat staring at him, her eggs still untouched on her plate though her coffee was half drunk. "Will you tell me about him?" she asked seeing his once amused mouth straighten to one of wondering. "The dog you loved enough to build a shrine?"

"Not a shrine," he correctly gently buying himself time to mull over a decent explanation to give her. "He was a good dog, I cared for him greatly."

She openly searched his face not believing it were that simple, love by itself was not enough leverage to earn a constant reminder. "Is it guilt?" she asked watching surprise twitch upon his brow.

"Partly," he answered wondering, as he had before, how they'd not come across her before. She paused to think, showed caution where others would leap blindly to a conclusion, and he pondered whether she showed the same restraint when operating. Then he was left, his gaze level with her warm stare, with why she'd allowed him to find her that first night; unless she truly was clever enough to know the danger she had found herself.  
He'd made the mistake of turning his back on her to disable the Russians sent to retrieve the codes – only Harry realized then they'd been sent with the intention to kill her, as her task of retrieving the codes was complete leaving her nothing but a loose end. It gave Harry great pause to realize how much she had accomplished in so little time; she'd gotten the codes and more likely than not photocopied each page, introduced to him the man she was now hiding from, wound him around her finger by giving him the launch codes, enticed him with warmth and mystery, and now she sat under his protection knowing he would find the man after her. "Your eggs are getting cold," is what he told her.

"I will eat my sedative if you tell me about Mr. Pickles," she said watching amused as he looked away.

He sipped his own coffee as he thought, finding he didn't know whether to be wary or intrigued – and quite possibly taken with her – so he settled for answering her, curious whether she would keep her word and eat. "He was part of my training; shooting him the final stage." If he had achieved one thing it was surprising her, her brows were poised her eyes shining somewhere between curious and sad; and he wasn't sure if he wanted it, the intimacy of her knowing something that still shamed him.

And then she said, "that is cruel."

"Yes," he said turning back to his mug, "I suppose my actions were."

With great patience she waited for him to turn back to her, to remind her to eat the eggs. But he merely sat cup in hand staring at the space in front of him lost in his mind, in memories of a dog that burned him with guilt, and now her knowledge of it and her judgment. Such a strange man, she thought staring at his drawn in brows and his frowning mouth; a sweet expression on his striking face. At his continued silence she reached for him, her hand molding around the curve of his arm, finally seeing his eyes when he looked to her curiously. "I would have shot the dog," she told him honestly, proving her ambition. "The choice was cruel."

He felt the loss of her warm hand as though it'd been ripped away, and he was left watching her spread the now cold eggs over her toast. There was an urgency in him, a need, to keep her there longer. The hand she had lifted to her mouth was stilled at his touch, at his own hand that encompassed her wrist. "You've yet to tell me your name," he said feeling the jolt of her pulse beneath his thumb.

A strange man indeed, and almost entirely in the palm of her hand. "Margot."

"And the last?"

A smile curled slow and half formed on her mouth. "Leclère," she answered. "I have enjoyed meeting you Harry Hart."

His hand fell from her wrist as she took a generous bite of the bread, and then he could do little more than watch her chew before she took a sip of coffee and gently wiped her mouth. Her hold on the napkin slipped as she returned it to the table and she watched it fall crumpled to the floor. She wanted to reach for it, it was unsuitable to leave it, but her strength was failing and if she bent to get it she wouldn't sit back up. Looking up she saw him standing at her side, and it was all she could do to keep her head tilted up when there seemed to be a weight on her chin pulling her down.

"Come now, dear," he said seeing she was quickly fading. He leaned toward her and pulled her arm over his shoulder as he lifted her from the chair cradling her against him, her forehead on his cheek, her arm hanging limp down his back.

She was gone before he reached the stairs and he wholly regretted it; there were so many questions he wished to ask, answers he knew would go in line with her own questions. He could almost imagine the day they would've had, for the most part sitting beside each other on the couch, simply talking, maybe touching – and he didn't think either of them would've resembled anything near boredom. He couldn't recall the last time he'd wanted to sit with someone and know them. But instead he was laying her in the guest bed and pulling the covers over her, planning to spend much of the day discussing with Arthur what to do with her.

 


End file.
